by Nicole Snow
“You guys make functional art for people. They can enjoy it daily, whether they’re inside the buildings or just gazing from the outside in. I love it, even if it’s not something I could do for a living.”
“Why? You’re creative and smart.”
Not to mention too gorgeous for life, I think to myself, clenching my mouth shut so it doesn’t slip out.
“Art and architecture are two different fields.” She grins. “Plus, I like the way it feels to have my hands buried in the clay, smoothing and pinching and bringing something new to life.”
Sweet hell, the dirty thoughts that image brings.
How did I ever think this girl was just a drunken partier?
“I tried pottery once—”
She rolls her eyes. “Sculpting goes way beyond pottery.”
“I know, but I wasn’t very good at pottery either. I just did it to get this girl to like me. But I shelled out fifty bucks at this ‘make your own coffee cup’ place, and there was no second date after my mug turned into a watering can,” I say, taking a long pull off my bottle.
Paige laughs, a lash of hair falling down her face.
“Desperate measures! I’m not sure why you’d even have to fake liking pottery to get a date, Ward.”
“Seems like faking romance is what I do.”
Her eyebrows go up. “Honestly, that story sounds more like your brother than you.”
“You don’t think Nick has a monopoly on stupid, do you? I was twenty-three and just back from Iraq. Can you blame me?”
“No. I’m just surprised you weren’t uptight back in the day.”
I cock my head. “Uptight? I was more serious than Nick even then, certainly, but that was before—”
Maria. Her name sticks in my mind like a barb.
It was before Maria, before I felt the family curse, before I realized I’d have to be straitlaced to the letter of the law to prove that I’m more than another bad seed.
“That was before some shit got serious,” I correct sharply. “After that last deployment, I was completely off my game. Turns out, covering your boys from enemy snipers while they’re playing real-life Minesweeper makes you a little jumpy long after you’re back home.”
She lets out a low whistle.
“Whoa, that’s rough. I’m sure you didn’t love Iraq, but did you like the Army?” she asks, her green eyes enchanted in a new way when she looks at me.
“No one loves MRE breakfasts and being packed in like sardines with a dozen other men, much less an active warzone,” I say. When I came back from Iraq, I didn’t feel like I had much purpose. There, it was life and death and in your face. Long stretches of extreme boredom poached by ambushes from hell. Everything seemed dull after that. Truth be told, I loved the discipline, the sense of purpose, and the friends I made along the way.”
“You have friends?” She stares, then blushes. “Sorry. Bad joke.”
“I’m a busy man, Paige, and I know when to keep my colleagues at arm’s length. Believe it or not, I do have a social life. And if you’re the best fake fiancée ever, you just might see it.”
We trade tense smiles.
Smart mouth aside, I’m actually a bit touched. I can’t remember the last time someone asked about me in this detail.
Maybe we’re not so different over wine. Tonight, I’m not her boss or even the prick who’s paying her to pretend we’re getting married.
I’m just a man with loose lips lost in her emerald eyes.
Bang. Bang. Bang!
Just like that, our moment ends.
“Food’s here.” Paige pops up and moves behind the couch, then stops. “Umm—this place is so huge—”
I chuckle, setting the wine bottle on the table.
“No worries, darling. I’ll get it.”
She doesn’t hammer me over the d-word this time. It also falls out with an ease that would scare me, if I let myself ponder it for more than two seconds.
Fuck.
Paige bites her bottom lip, a ripe cherry, and for a second I wish it was my lip she’d chew on.
“You could just show me. If I’m going to be here for three months, I need to find my own way around, don’t I, darling fiancé?”
Her eyes gleam, face framed in blond softness my hands ache to pull.
I stand, shifting so she doesn’t see my raging hard-on.
“Right this way.”
The next morning, I’m opening the Lincoln for Paige as a blinding light explodes in my eyes.
I blink several times, clearing my vision. Footsteps pound the pavement, surrounding us at the curb. Reporters, meaner than a pack of javelinas.
“Wow, word travels fast,” Paige says.
“Hurry and get in,” I order.
She climbs in the car and slides to the middle, making room for me.
“Do you think we’ll be ambushed a lot?” she asks once we’re moving away from the swarm.
“I hope to hell not. The next moron who shoves a camera in my face gets it rammed up their ass.”
“Ward, you can’t do that!” She gasps through her smile.
“Why not?”
“Don’t think you’d enjoy the prison time, for one. Also, if we don’t smile and think happy thoughts, this isn’t going to work. It’ll all be for nothing if Ross Winthrope thinks we’re anything less than soulmates and grown-ups,” she whispers. “So smile. Be so in love with me you put the ragies aside. Pretty please?”
She bats her eyelashes.
My cock jolts in my pants like a badly behaved animal on a leash.
“My cheeks still hurt from yesterday. I’m worried my face is going to stick, sooner or later,” I tell her.
People kept stopping by my office all day to congratulate me. Of course, I had to smile each time.
I may have arthritis in my jaw.
Paige laughs, moving her cleavage against the low neckline of her snug green dress.
“That color brings out your eyes,” I say slowly, hoping I finish the sentence with the right word.
Because it’s not her eyes I’m glued to.
“Good one,” she whispers. “But my eyes are up here. You should probably touch me, too. Hand on my knee or something. Don’t go overboard or I’ll break you.”
My face feels like a cooked ham.
I contemplate my next move. Ideally, one that keeps up this charade without mincing my sanity into dog food. I’m still deep in thought when another annoying voice cuts in.
“How’s my favorite couple today?” Reese asks.
“Delightful!” Paige says. “How are you?”
“Hyped up on Mountain Dew,” Reese says.
“That’s more information than you’re supposed to give your boss,” I tell her.
“I wish I was partying all fancy-like. I had to babysit my niece last night and she wouldn’t drift off until midnight. That’s almost as fun, but grape Kool-Aid just isn’t the same as wine, y’know?”
I do know, and I also know it’s far too early for this inanity.
I raise the privacy screen between us, hook an arm around Paige, and pull her closer.
We’re touching, skin grazing in so many places. My body ignites. She stares up at me with a raised brow and full lips I can already feel on mine.
Damn.
“How’s this?” I whisper. “Convincing yet?”
I can’t let her know every seething inch of me already believes she’s mine.
She doesn’t answer, but I feel her body pressing closer, this plush heat my flesh craves like a tan beneath a tropical sun.
Who the fuck am I kidding? We don’t have to fake it so seriously right now when it’s just us.
Reese will believe anything I tell her.
Still, why miss the chance to practice?
“Am I making you uncomfortable?” I whisper to her again.
“No, darling.” She smiles and drops her head on my shoulder.
This time, the d-word actually sounds nice rolling off her tongue, a
nd it shouldn’t.
Careful, dumbass. This ends in eighty-nine days. Don’t forget it’s all a show.
We pull up to The Art Institute of Chicago a few minutes later. I get out first and offer a hand to Paige, who takes it.
We’re walking up the stairs when she says, “This is where we met.”
I nod, opening the door for her at the top of the stairs. Why does her voice sound so heavy?
“What are we doing here again?” she asks as we enter the museum.
“Because we’re donors, they include short biographies on Nick and me too, not just Grandma. I have to update my bio to include my fiancée and I thought I’d do it in person. Better chance to give any eager cameras an eyeful on our terms.”
“Oh. Do you think we can walk through the gardens before we leave?” she asks sweetly.
My lips quirk up in a smile I badly want to repress.
“We’ll have to see how much time we have before our next appointment.”
She nods.
We walk to the members-only desk.
“I need to speak to the curator,” I say.
“Of course, Mr. Brandt. I’m going to open the door beside my booth. You can go right through it, and the curator will meet you back there,” the girl behind the counter says.
Paige and I walk behind the door to a set of offices complete with a front desk.
“I didn’t know this room was even here,” Paige says.
“Follow me,” I tell her, sliding my fingers through hers to pull her along.
I’m about to lead her to the front desk to ask for the curator when the door to the back office opens.
“Mr. Brandt, it’s a pleasure. Come on back,” Curator Staci says.
“Thank you, Staci.”
My hand falls to the small of Paige’s back and I lead her into the office. Touching her is getting far too easy.
Staci lingers in the doorway.
“This must be your fiancée.” She holds out her hand. “So nice to meet you!”
“Thank you.” Paige gives it a firm shake.
“Have I seen you here before?” Staci asks, a puzzled look on her face.
“Oh, I come here a lot,” Paige says. “I’ve been a regular ever since college.”
“I thought so.” Staci gives her a once-over and looks at me. “I know you wanted to update your bio, and we’ll take care of that. But this is wonderful timing because I actually received a box of new donations for the Beatrice Nightingale Brandt exhibit today, and I need to know how you want to handle it?” She walks around her desk and motions for us to sit.
The hunter-green satin hugging Paige’s body shows more leg when she sits. God, I’d like to rip it right off her.
Fuck. Concentrate.
Staci sets a cardboard box on her desk and drops into her chair. “You can go through it if you want, but I trust you’re familiar with the material.”
She pushes the box closer.
What material? Who sent this? What even is it?
I take the box and start rummaging through it, unsure what I’ll find. First, I pull out old sketchbooks and start flipping through them. They’re from when Grandma was young. The paper feels brittle, faded, but still plenty readable like it’s been tucked away for years.
They’re very old. Her designs aren’t as elaborate or refined as the work she’s known for, but her talent is evident even in her early work.
There must be six sketchbooks full of drawings here, and under the last one, a stack of...letters?
My brows pull together as my eyes skim the words.
Holy shit.
A lot of them are love letters from my grandpa. I remember her frantically looking for these at least a year after he died.
Dread fills my gut like seething tar.
“Where did this come from?” I ask, a rawness in my tone.
“Oh, the donor was anonymous. A collector of her work, I believe,” Staci says, twisting her head. “I hope there isn’t a problem?”
Oh, but there is.
A big damn problem.
I hold up several letters, shaking them. “These are very personal. I’m not sure she’ll want to donate them for public view. I’ll need to talk to her.”
“Absolutely, can she come in sometime?”
“She’s still in the hospital.”
“Oh, yes, the heart trouble. God, I heard about that, I’m so sorry. I suppose you could take them and just bring them back if she’d like to make them part of her collection?” Staci offers, far too calmly.
The room is spinning.
There’s lava in my veins.
I’m so on edge it hurts when a fluttery hand traces my bicep.
I catch myself a split second before I fling Paige across the room, and instantly feel like an asshole. I need to get a grip.
“Ward? Are you okay?” she asks.
I don’t answer.
Paige watches as I continue pilfering through the box, my fury rising every second.
“I’m fine. I just need to know what’s in here,” I growl through my teeth, pulling out a few more letters and training my eyes on them like rifles.
Some of them are addressed to my mother, and some to my dad. They’re all from Grandma.
10/2/1996
Victor,
You’ve had plenty of time to think about this, and the whole world wants answers—including me. That young man’s family deserves answers most of all, and I’m sad that you’ve decided to remain silent, holed up in Florida.
You weren’t raised this way.
Your sons will be young men in no time. They deserve a better example.
Frankly, I’m glad the boys have spent most of their time here while you and that social butterfly you married traipsed around without a care in the world. At this point, I’m not sure they were safe with you. If they’d been on that boat...we can only imagine the horror.
There’s no nice way to say this.
Get it together, or you’re dead to me.
Sincerely,
Mom
This shit has to be from my old man. No one else would have it. Leave it to him to air dirty laundry.
The only question is why? What the hell does he want from us now?
I toss the letter in the pile of stuff. I’ll make sure it disappears down a deep, dark hole.
“I hate to disappoint, Staci, but I wasn’t aware of this material. Most of it’s confidential family stuff that doesn’t belong in a public exhibit or even an archive,” I say, leveling my tone.
My poker face can’t be as good as I think.
Paige stares at me in a way that says she knows I’m pissed and not doing a very good job of hiding it.
She can stay out of it. She’s not paid to care, and this fuckery isn’t her problem.
Her green eyes connect with mine for a sad second, and my gut sinks. I gave her fair warning certain monsters might surface when she signed on to our sham, but this is too soon.
“There was one more thing,” Staci says quietly.
“What?” I run my hand through the box, looking for anything I missed.
“This,” she says.
I look up, and there it is.
I’m staring at the incident that demolished my family and left Nick and me to be scrutinized by every person we’ve met since. A replica of it, technically.
My jaw tightens.
I don’t want that goddamned thing on display anywhere—I have a screaming urge to set it on fire—and I know Grandma doesn’t, either.
Yeah, no question now. My old man wants blood and these little souvenirs he’s dredged up are a threat. His usual theatrics that will only get louder if we don’t do what he wants.
Fuck, I don’t even want to know what he’s after.
“What is it?” Paige asks softly.
I can barely speak. “A replica of my grandparents’ boat. It disappeared in Lake Michigan a long time ago.”
“One of the design books has a sketch of it,” Staci say
s, oblivious to the hornets in my throat. “I’m so sorry your grandparents lost their ship. Did Mrs. Brandt design this beauty herself?”
Yep. I nod curtly. Unfortunately, she did.
And she adored it until the day it sank beneath the waves with Dylan Parnell aboard.
It’s a scar on our family now, a nightmare my sick grandmother doesn’t need to relive.
A monster I can’t afford to come barreling out of the closet until after this damn hotel deal is closed. I grab the model yacht and drop it on top of the box.
“Thank you, Staci, but I’ll be taking this, too.”
“Surely, a replica isn’t personal?” Staci says, disappointment lining her face.
My eyes are spinning knives. Her mouth falls open in a silent apology, and she slinks back in her chair.
“Whatever you need to do, Mr. Brandt. Forgive me for prying.”
I feel Paige’s gaze stabbing at my back. It takes every ounce of strength to keep it together, but I do, for her sake.
“No offense taken. Please understand, it’s a model of her favorite boat that she hasn’t seen in years. She’s an elderly woman recovering from serious cardiac distress. All I’m asking is, just let her look at it, please? If you need fresh art to expand the collection, I’m sure my brother and I can come up with something better than this disorganized mess.”
I have no idea what, but I’ll give her whatever she wants to forget this hell-charm ever existed. I look at Paige. “We should go, darling.”
“Darling,” she spits back.
Damn, I’m starting to despise that word. But at least she nods and gets up.
“Wait, didn’t you want to update your biography?” Staci asks.
Shit.
I forgot about that in my mad rush to fling this model yacht off a cliff.
“Yes, thank you. Just add that I’m engaged to Paige Holly, who also went to Northwestern and works at Brandt Ideas,” I say sternly.
Staci smiles and takes a piece of stationery from her desk, scribbling across it. She looks at Paige. “What’s your degree in?”
“Art,” Paige says with a million-dollar smile.
“Now it makes sense!” Staci smiles. “That’s why I’ve see you here so often.”
